


Serenity

by Nilsine



Category: Gankutsuou: The Count of Monte Cristo
Genre: F/M, Harp - Freeform, Hookah, Introspection, Medication, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:43:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilsine/pseuds/Nilsine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s harmony.</p><p>That’s what the Count thinks as the pill passes through his lips.</p><p>Written for the Prompt Exchange Challenge on Fanfiction.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serenity

_She’s harmony._  

That’s what the Count thinks as the pill passes through his lips. The small box is slipped out of view. He doesn’t take his eyes off of her. The medicine begins to take its affect. The dulcet tune soothes his soul. His mind can rest at last, if only for a moment. 

Haydée strums on her elegant harp. Her long, skilled fingers play upon the strings; they sing out by her flicks alone. Her hands—so calculating, so clever. 

Like him. 

She is a vision of harlequin rainbow—her robes, almost too bright to bear. It makes her smooth skin all the more pale. Her hair—arranged in elaborate currents—cascades down her back. Her dark eyes are deeply entrenched in some lost, forgotten world. Her fingers lead him into a trance; her hands turn and twist as she slowly weaves the song to its conclusion. 

It seems as though Haydée caresses the harp. Loves it. Cherishes it. She is melancholy and focused… patient and impatient. Like him—she knows the notes, she knows what must be done, she knows when it needs to be done. But knowing and _waiting_ is a poignant pleasure. Hurrying and stumbling only leads to a discordant staccato. Only a perfect execution would give her melodious ecstasy. 

She doesn’t look away from her labor of love. 

The Count feels the pill settling in his body, flowing throw his veins. The hookah sits before him on the table, waiting to be indulged in. He takes the tube in his mouth, kissing the opening with wanton abandon, bringing himself further into oblivion. The smoke coils, framing around her like a transparent aviary. 

Yes, she is his little caged bird. Her wings have no need to be clipped. 

The song ends, and her hands fall away from the strings. She gazes upon him, expectantly, serenely. Her elfin smile is frail and powerful. 

“Play me another,” he drawls, reaching out his hand, beckoning her. 

The room fills with hazy clouds of smoke. Haydée bows her head low and moves her angelic hands, drawing the harp back into her embrace. 


End file.
